Texting the Other Side
by consultingtimelady1895
Summary: After the Fall of the world's only consulting detective, his best friend continues sending him texts over the course of two years. (Post-Reichenbach)
1. Texting

_/Hey, I'm at the store, do you need anything? JW/_

_/Sorry about that last text, forgot that you're dead. JW/_

_/Anyways, I think I'm going to keep texting you anyways. Sorry. Well, I don't suppose it matters to you. JW/_

_/That was a stupid text. You'd say it was unintelligent and dull. Sorry. JW/_

_/Went to my therapist again. She wasn't very helpful. How are you? JW/_

_/Again, sorry, I forgot that you're not going to be anything but dead. JW/_

Another ping. Finally, he stopped in his endless pacing and looked towards his mobile where it rested on a table. Heaving out an irritated sigh at what could only be Mycroft's incessant messaging, he Sherlock broke his pattern and walked over to the phone. Turning it over in his hand and unlocking it, he felt his breath stop for a moment as he read the name the texts were from. It was not what he expected at all.

John. John was _texting_ him.

For a moment, Sherlock felt a thrill of fear go through him. Did John know he was alive? He can't know. He'd be in danger.

But then, Sherlock read through the multiple texts. No, John definitely believed he was dead. Something in him pained as he thought about his friend sending texts to a supposedly dead man while going about his day. Surely he had other things to attend to? Sherlock wanted to reply. His fingers hovered over the virtual keyboard as he thought out what his response could be.

/_I'm sorry. John, I'm alive. I'm sorry._/

But he couldn't. If he did- if John knew too early, the laser sight of a rifle would be right back on his head.

* * *

_/I found a different flat. Just moved out of Baker Street. There was too much of your stuff in it. Too much you. Sorry. JW/_

_/Mrs. Hudson said she'll leave your things, so don't worry. No one's going to touch your skull, or your microscope or mess up your sock index. JW/_

Then device vibrated again in his hand. Sherlock cursed. Of course John would make it difficult for him as well. But this... John seemed to be worse off than he had imagined. One reply... that would be all it took.


	2. Coping

_/hey, sherlock! you know what day it is? it's actually a good day! JW/_

_/anyways i'm out and enjoying myself, and there's stuff adn deosnt realy mattr does it? JW/_

_/the best thidng is that your not heere and i dont hace to remember. ha. JW/_

Reluctantly, Sherlock unlocked his phone and read through John's messages. He shouldn't waste time like this... but it was John. And he was drunk, obviously. God, he hoped that he wouldn't turn to alcohol like Harriet had.

He sent a quick text to Mycroft. /_He's messaging me_./

A reply came quickly._ /I am aware./_

_/He's drinking./_

_/Yes./_

Sherlock felt a rush of anger go through him. Didn't Mycroft understand? Was he doing _anything_ helpful? /_Stop him, you idiot_/, he typed, hitting the screen with more force than necessary.

John's name popped up on the screen again. Sherlock sighed.

_/I am sorry./_ came Mycroft's reply. Sherlock knew it. He believed him, despite being frustrated with him constantly.

* * *

_/Fuck. Sorry about those texts last night. As you can probably tell, I went and got myself drunk. While not having to think was great, the hangover's hell. JW/_

_/For some reason, your brother's paying for the new flat. Thanks for that. JW/_

_/Well, no point in getting a job, is there? JW/_

_/I suppose I'll just spend the rest of my life texting you and pretending that you're not dead. JW/_

_/Except that you are. I saw you jump, I saw you fall, I saw you broken on the pavement. Blood everywhere. And there was nothing I could do. JW/_

_/My fault, really, that you jumped. I should have been there. I shouldn't have said the things I did the last time I actually saw you. Sorry. JW/_

_/Cause you weren't a machine, not really. Yeah, you tried to act above it all, but you were still the bravest and best man I'll have ever known. JW/_

_/I'm sorry. JW/_

No, no, no. This was wrong. John was never meant to... to blame himself. Sherlock tossed his phone away. There was too much temptation in it. Just a call- "John, no, I'm alive. Wait a bit longer. You'll see." But he couldn't do that. He couldn't risk it. If John was killed...

No. That possibility could never be entertained. He resumed his pacing, planning out his next move. Almost done here, he thought to himself. He'd need to make his way to Serbia eventually. Running an exhausted hand through his hair, he let out a long breath. John would wait. He was strong. He'd be fine. Mycroft would watch him.


	3. Surviving

_/Went to the store and bought you your patches. JW/_

_/Well, I came home and realised I don't actually need them. Not much use buying things for a dead man. JW/_

_/Ended up crying for a while. Pathetic, really. I'm a bloody mess. It's ridiculous. JW/_

_/I mean, it's not like I haven't seen people die before. Lots of them, actually. Good friends, people I liked. JW/_

_/I guess the difference is that there was nothing I could have done about that. JW/_

_/Your...death, I could have stopped. I should have been faster, smarter, better. Just...more. JW/_

_/I'm sorry. JW/_

Ignore it. Ignore the messages. The logical part of him told him that it was better this way. That John was not involved. That had been Mycroft's idea really, that he was safer under gunpoint than out here with Sherlock. It had taken many months of intense arguing before Sherlock finally did see the dark logic in Mycroft's plan.

Damn his heart and the useless _feelings_ of sentiment that John had managed to awaken in him, somehow.

Sherlock opened the phone once again to see another wave of messages from John. Maybe this was good. Maybe it gave John some sort of therapeutic comfort to continue to send texts to a dead man's phone. But he was apologizing... For what?

He sighed again. Maybe he had been too cruel. He had tried to make John lose faith in him- he and Mycroft both thought that would make the healing process faster. If he felt he had been tricked and played for that time that they knew each other, he wouldn't mourn the loss of Sherlock too much.

Had they been wrong?

* * *

_/Stopped going to my therapist. So now, the only time I leave the flat is when I have to. JW/_

_/Sometimes I wonder if this is how I would have ended up if you hadn't come along. JW/_

_/What are you up to? JW/_

_/I'm not doing much, aside from sending these stupid texts and sitting around the flat. JW/_

_/Got drunk again, last night. You're probably shaking your head at that. Yeah, I know it's stupid, but it helps. JW/_

_/Some sort of trend has started. I think it was your Homeless Network. JW/_

_/Anyways, there are signs, popping up all over the place. 'I believe in Sherlock Holmes' and 'Moriarty was real'. JW/_

_/You'd think it would help. No. Where were all these people when you needed them? JW/_

_/Where was I? So, yeah, they make life, if you can call it that, a little difficult. JW/_

This was too much, even for Sherlock. He closed the messages and then called Mycroft. This was too urgent for a text message.

He picked up immediately. "Yes?"

Sherlock did not appreciate his irritated tone one bit. "What are you _doing_?" he hissed into the mobile.

He could see Mycroft drawing back, offended. "I am doing all that you've asked me to," he replied smoothly.

"He's stopped going to his therapist, he's drinking, he's texting me-" Sherlock went on and on, his voice losing the usual control and stability he prided himself on.

"Sherlock," Mycroft cut him off, his voice as calm as ever, "I am watching him. Focus on your task, and I will focus on mine. Understand?" He spoke to Sherlock as if they were both children again.

Sherlock ground his teeth together. "I am concerned," he admitted in a low tone.

"I know."

Silence.

"I want to talk to him."

Mycroft audibly sighed. "You know you can't."

Sherlock nodded, even though he knew Mycroft wouldn't be able to hear that.

"It's almost over," Mycroft added, in a strangely gentle voice. "I promise he'll be alright."

Sherlock swallowed hard. "Yes."

The elder Holmes' took this as his cue to end the call. "Be careful, Sherlock. Do not get distracted," he warned seriously, and then hung up.

Sherlock lowered the phone away from his ear, exhaling quietly. John would be fine. He had to be.

* * *

_/Some reporters came by the flat. I told them to fuck off. JW/_

_/There's not much for me to do, these days. JW/_

_/Just sitting around, drinking when it's all too much. Which happens quite often. JW/_

_/I'm such a bloody mess it's pathetic. Honestly, you'd think that I could, I dunno, do something. JW/_

_/I used to have nightmares about Afghanistan. Now, the only thing I dream about is you, falling. And me, so far away. And you hit the pavement, and there's nothing I can do, because you're broken, and there's blood everywhere. JW/_

_/Sorry I'm bothering you with these. I'm sure you have better things to to than listen to me pity myself. JW/_

Sherlock shrugged on his coat. 'Don't get distracted.' Mycroft's words echoed through his head even as he read through even more of John's messages. Finally, he pocketed the phone with some difficulty. He had to move on. The next target. Focus. Focus. John. John was the end goal. The purpose was John. John was the work.

John would wait.


	4. Existing

John sat in a chair, in the new flat. Sparsely furnished, it only had the essentials. A bed, a couch, a fridge, a table. He didn't really need anything else. Didn't particularly care about anything else, either. He sighed and laughed bitterly to himself. "What the hell happened to you? Honestly, get yourself back together," he said. Right after that, he put his head in his hands. It just wasn't worth it. He didn't have anything anymore. His life was completely pointless.

Sighing to himself before glancing down the street either way, Mycroft sharply knocked at the door to this new flat. John Watson's new home away from 221B. Away from Sherlock.

He briefly recalled the voice of his brother during their most recent phone call. He had sounded so absolutely frightened that Mycroft had now taken it upon himself to visit the old army doctor in person for the first time in weeks.

Lifting his head, John glared at the door and growled, "Go away." All he wanted was to be alone. People didn't help; they were part of the problem. Besides, what was he supposed to do? He was broken, probably too much to fix, by now. There was only so much that a person could take. After a while, they just gave up. Things were much easier this way.

Mycroft sighed inwardly. Fine. Pleased that he'd had the foresight to secretly have an extra key to this exact flat made for him, he simply unlocked the door in front of him as quietly as he could before pushing it open slightly. Prepared for the fact that John may actually draw a weapon on him, Mycroft did not immediately enter.

"John Watson," he called. "May I come in?" he asked, fully intending to, regardless of the answer.

John's head whipped around at the sound of the elder Holmes- no, the only Holmes, now. Gritting his teeth, he sent a hate filled glare at him. "No. Get out," he spat. It was Mycroft's fault that this had happened, too. He'd given Moriarty exactly what he'd needed. And Sh- _he _had paid the price. Although John was slightly grateful for the new flat, he put that down to a feeling of guilt on the other's part. John didn't want to see him, not now, not ever.

Pushing open the door a bit wider, Mycroft took a single, cautious step into the threshold. "John," he repeated, "I wish to speak with you."

"And I don't care. Now get out," he said flatly. John turned back around and, in an attempt to look normal, picked up a newspaper lying around, not noticing that it was from a few months ago.

Finally, deeming it somewhat certain that John would not immediately kill him, Mycroft stepped into the flat entirely and let the door shut behind him. His eyes were drawn to the man living alone, here, and Mycroft studied him for a short moment. "Hello," he said quietly, ignoring John's hostility and remaining where he was.

John decided then that the best way to go about this would be to ignore Mycroft. He looked pointedly at the newspaper he was holding, pretending to read. Making sure that Mycroft didn't see what he was doing, John took out his phone and sent a quick text.

_/Your brother's here, bothering me. Bloody British Government thinks it can do anything it likes. JW/_

Sending it, John repeated a sort of mantra in his head. "I'm not crazy, I'm not." Maybe he was, though. Maybe he was finally losing his mind. Wouldn't really be a surprise, after all that had happened.

The newspaper was from February. John was now texting, obviously. Taking a few quiet, measured steps towards him, Mycroft then quickly surveyed the flat. Dark. Cold. Unfurnished. Small. Empty.

A place of existing, not living. Survival.

He lowered his eyes to the silent man who seemed entirely different from the old John Watson. Saying nothing, he merely waited until John would give in to curiosity or anger at look at him.

Realising that Mycroft wasn't leaving, John looked up with narrowed eyes. "What do you want?" he said flatly. "Hoping to ruin someone else's life? Oh, wait, you've already done that." His lips twisted into a bitter facsimile of a smile.

Mycroft held John's pained stare. "I had hoped," he began quietly, "that you would be better off than you are, currently." No need to dance around the subject. Being direct would provide the best results especially with a man so... empty, as John now seemed to be. His mouth tightened into a flat smile as well, matching the old soldier's. "You are texting him," he stated simply. He stood against a wall of the bland flat, leaning ever so slightly on his ever-present umbrella. Sharp, familiar eyes remained locked on John's person studiously. Cautiously.

John shrugged- a sharp lift of his shoulders. "Yeah, so?" he asked coldly, not caring anymore if Mycroft knew. With a sharp look, he added, "And why do you care how I am? It doesn't matter. This whole thing is your fault, too. You gave the fucking information that Moriarty wanted. And you didn't even care. Your own damn brother jumped off a building, and here you are, calm as ever, as if nothing fucking happened. Didn't even come to the fucking funeral. Don't you fucking care about _anything_?" John kept his voice low, dangerously so, all the while glaring at Mycroft.

"He would not want you to be like this," Mycroft said evasively, holding John's gaze until the other eventually looked away.

With a bitter laugh, John said, "Doesn't really matter what he would want. He's dead." He looked down at the floor, trying to keep himself from falling apart. "Just…leave me alone," he said in a voice that was slowly becoming more and more broken.


	5. Lying

"I am afraid that I truly cannot."

"Why not?" John couldn't get anything else out, feeling the familiar lump in his throat. Fuck it, he wouldn't break down now, not in front of fucking _Mycroft_. He didn't need anyone else telling him he needed help.

"You are owed many things, John Watson." Mycroft watched him, his expression unrevealing, as the man before him slowly became someone nearly unrecognizable to him.

"Yeah? How so? And by who?" he asked flatly, his voice low. There was no one left anymore. John was alone, like he'd always been, until he hadn't, but that didn't matter anymore, because it was over. He blinked rapidly.

Sherlock must not know how bad John had gotten, Mycroft decided at that moment.

"Believe me, John," he responded in a mild tone.

John scoffed bitterly. "I failed. So no one owes me anything. There isn't anyone anyways." He stared at the floor, blinking, trying to keep himself together.

"You have failed no one, John." He paused, letting out a short breath. He had to be very careful and selective with his words now. While he truly wanted John to live healthfully and as happily as he could as much as Sherlock did, Mycroft could not reveal his younger brother's existence. Not yet. "There is always someone."

John let out a harsh laugh. "Who, then?" he asked, looking up with a cynical expression. "I told you, there's no one. It doesn't matter. Look, you've done your moral obligation or whatever, you can go now." A moment later he added a sincere, "Please."

"It is not an obligation, John. It is what you need. What I am able to provide." Mycroft glanced away for a moment, letting his composed expression falter for a single moment.

"I am sorry, John," he added, sincerity ringing harshly with never word. "It will get better soon."

John closed his eyes and attempted a smile. "Yeah, sure. Anyways, unless you can bring the dead back from the grave, there's nothing you can do. I'm fine. You can go," he repeated, trying to appear as fine as he said he was. It didn't matter that he would never be fine again. All he wanted was to be alone.

"Very well," Mycroft finally conceded. His visits would have to be much more frequent, he noted. A text to Sherlock would suffice. No need for details. He straightened, brooding over what he could possibly say to his brother.

John nodded stiffly and leaned back, resuming his blank staring out the window, stretching his stupid leg out. Damn limp had returned, but he supposed it made sense, it being psychosomatic and all.

Quietly taking his leave, Mycroft wished John the best in a polite but honest farewell. Yes, he would need to be very frequent. Perhaps not him, but Lestrade, maybe. Miss Hooper? Harriet? As he shut the door to John's lonely flat behind him, he pulled out his phone again while making his way down the street where he knew a dark vehicle would be waiting for him. He typed out a short text.

_/Not good, but I am adjusting my schedule. MH/_

That would do for the time being. Knowing that Sherlock would understand that he was referring to John and also that he would not be able to reply for a while, Mycroft soon found himself inside of the car and was on his way back to his office. He had much to think about, very much.


	6. Apologising

_/Lestrade came by. Wanted me to come and see a case. He thought that I might've picked something up from you. Ha, as if. Well, I said no. JW/_

_/People keep trying to come by. Is it that difficult to understand that I want to be alone? JW/_

_/I think you were right, when you said "Alone protects me". It's a lot easier being alone, I guess. Caring hurts too much. JW/_

_/Kept thinking I saw you today. I honestly don't know if I was dreaming, or hallucinating, or maybe, just maybe, it was real. JW/_

_/Sorry, I keep forgetting you're dead. JW/_

_/Do you want me to pick anything up from the store? JW/_

_/I'll get the milk, you won't have to complain about it. JW/_

_/Reading through these texts, I wonder if I'm going crazy. I really don't know anymore. JW/_

_/I had to get some sleeping pills. I haven't been able to sleep for days now. Anyways, they help, though maybe things were better when I wasn't sleeping, because when I sleep, I dream. And…it's not pleasant. JW/_

_/I just realised, they never recovered your phone. Some complete stranger could have this and be reading all of my stupid texts. Sorry. JW/_

_/I've tried to stop texting you, but, for some reason, I can't. JW/_

_/I'm sorry for everything. JW/_

_/Please, come home. JW/_

"He's still texting me," Sherlock mumbled thickly into his mobile. His brother sighed on the other end.

"Yes, I know you're doing your best," he said in reply to Mycroft, "I don't... understand."

"I'm sorry."

Sherlock paused at something strange in the inflection of Mycroft's voice. "You're lying to me about something," he accused suddenly.

Mycroft did not respond.

"John. It's about John, isn't it?" Sherlock's grip tightened around his phone. "Tell me now, tell me-"

"Sherlock," Mycroft cut him off sharply. "You need to focus-"

"I need to _know_." The younger of the Holmes siblings let out a shuddering breath. "Please, Mycroft," he said in an uncharacteristically small voice.

Another silence. "He is... not well." There was so much hidden in Mycroft's statement, Sherlock knew it. So many implications, so many possibilities.

He swallowed thickly. "Should I... come back?"

"No," came the swift, automatic reply. Then, a hesitation. "I am sorry. Soon."

"He's asking me to," Sherlock reasoned, "He's texting me. Maybe he knows. Maybe he can be a part of this now-"

"Sherlock, do not do this. Not now. You know why that is not a possibility." The sound of logic was hard and cold in Mycroft's voice and it rang in Sherlock's mind painfully. But it was the truth.

"But... John," Sherlock managed to say after a moment, stupidly. He was exhausted physically, but now emotionally as well. Mycroft could sense it even through the phone.

"I've taken care of a few operatives here in London. The last of them in Britain." Sherlock brightened then, at the new information given by his brother. That meant... that meant...

"Just one left," Mycroft completed his thought for him.

One. One more. One more until home. Until John.

"Thank you," he said vehemently, biting his lip hard.

"Rest, Sherlock," Mycroft replied with a sigh. "You need it. You sound awful."

A small smile tugged at Sherlock's mouth. "Yes." And with that, the call was over.

"One more," Sherlock repeated in his head like a mantra. He clung to it as his body gave in to exhaustion.


	7. Saying Goodbye

_/Well, Sherlock, I'm sorry. This is goodbye. I just can't anymore. I've tried, I promise. I just...can't. It's been getting harder and harder to live with myself. Because this was all my fault. And I'm sorry about that. It's just that it's all too much. I can't get you dying out of my head, can't sleep, can't eat, can't do anything. I'm sorry, I tried to be stronger. I guess this is my note, like you said. Funny, how things worked out. You died because I wasn't there, and now, I'm going to do the same thing, because you're not here. Before you came along, I was so alone. And then you were there, and my life wasn't so empty anymore. And it was great, going around with you. Except it ended. And now, I'm alone again. So, to whoever finds this, please tell anyone who listens that it wasn't their fault. This was my choice. Anyways, I guess I won't be alone much longer. Because this isn't really goodbye, Sherlock, it's more of a 'see you soon'. Well, that's it, I guess. Thanks for everything. See you. JW/_

John sat on his bed, staring at the phone in his hand, at the last message he would ever send. With a sense of finality, he hit the 'Send' button, and put the phone beside him. Two years of nothing but emptiness, all for this, for an end. Sighing tiredly, he picked up the bottle of pills on the nightstand. Sleeping pills, how ironic. At least, this time, they really would put him to sleep. An easy, peaceful, dreamless sleep. Didn't someone say something like "To die; to sleep..."? How very true. John was just so tired of it all. Tired of being alone, tired of being so damn empty all the time. Well, at least it would all be over soon. He hoped that no one that he knew blamed themselves for this. He didn't want that. All John wanted was to get away from his...existence. This half-life of his that he had been leading since Sherlock had jumped. Strange, he could say Sherlock's name again. "Almost there," he told himself, holding the bottle up to the light, before pouring out a few of the pills. He stared at them in his palm, remembering for a moment the first case that he had worked on with Sherlock. Well, it wouldn't be a fake suicide this time. This would be real, final, and exactly what he needed. He doubted that it would even be noticed, and shrugged, not caring. He knew that he had never been anyone important, not like Sherlock. Sherlock had always been the special one, the sort of spark in John's life. And now that was gone, leaving everything dull and lifeless again. He took a deep breath, staring at the five small white pills in his hand, not really surprised that he was so calm. This was the end of the story of Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson. Everyone died. Everything ended. And, in a moment, he would too.

"Stop him_._"

Mycroft, thankfully, seemed to understand at once. Saying nothing, the line was dropped and Sherlock was left in silence. Panicked, frightening silence.

His mind was running hundreds of trains of thoughts at once- rationalizing, imagining, denying, hoping, _praying_-

John couldn't mean... he couldn't. He was strong, and he would wait. He would be alright. Mycroft had promised.

Even as these thoughts passed through his mind, Sherlock paced through the small room he was currently in like an agitated wildcat trapped in a cage. Biting his lip hard enough to draw blood, he sent a hard stare towards where he had left his mobile. If Sherlock was correct that John was intending to-

What if Mycroft was too slow? What if he couldn't stop him in time?

Nearly diving for his phone, Sherlock opened it and read through John's message again. His hands shook and his mind went into overdrive. Letting out a harsh breath as he tried to calm himself, he decided then to do something absolutely dangerous. Ridiculous. Stupid. Destructive. Unacceptable.

Necessary.

_/John Hamish Watson. Don't you dare./_

Just as John was about to put an end to it all, he noticed the screen of his mobile light up. He glanced at it, wondering who would be texting him. No one did anymore. Picking up the phone, he quickly scanned the message. And almost dropped the phone. The text seemed to have come from Sherlock's number, which in itself was impossible. But on top of that, what it said was equally unbelievable. He held the phone in shaking hands, trying to calm himself down. No. It wasn't possible.

But what if it was? Maybe…The pills that he still held in his hand tumbled to the floor, and he sat on the bed, frozen. If…then he couldn't. Not yet. Not until he knew for sure. John was sure that Sherlock was dead, but he had to know. With trembling fingers, he managed to type out a reply.

_/Who is this? JW/_

He breathed out when he got a reply. This was wrong. So wrong. John, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson could have a target right back on their heads again. The rational part of Sherlock's mind told him to put the phone down now.

But the other part... the part he was still rather unfamiliar with... it told him that enough was enough. It had been too long. John didn't deserve this. No one did.

_/Please./_

He had to buy time... he had to stall him so Mycroft could find him and make sure...

As the mobile lit up again, John eagerly read the message and frowned. Well, at least he knew for certain that it wasn't Sherlock back from the dead. Sherlock would never say 'please'. Still, John needed to know who had sent the message. It was important. He didn't really care that whoever it was had read his pathetic messages, only that they knew who he was. And, maybe, they would have answers. Answers that John had to have. He clenched his hand and typed another reply out.

_/Who are you? Why do you care? JW/_

"I'm Sherlock, I'm alive, don't do this," the detective wanted to say. But he couldn't. Swearing colorfully, he actually struggled to come up with a response that would buy him and Mycroft time.

_/Why do this?/_

_/Because I've had enough of it all. And because it's my fault. Anyways, there's nothing here anymore. JW/_

John shrugged as he sent the text, not particularly caring that some random stranger was going to be reading through his thoughts. It didn't really matter.

_/Not your fault./_

Keep it short and simple, don't tip him off. Do not make him a target again.

John smiled flatly at the message. Of course. That's what every stranger would say.

_/How would you know? JW/_

Sherlock shut his eyes for a moment, exhaling slowly. At the very least, John seemed distracted. At least.

_/Obvious_./

It was a risk. To use a word that John had heard him say thousands of time...

John bit his lip, hard enough to taste blood, at the single word on the screen. It _hurt_. That had been Sherlock's word, and to see someone else using it was wrong. His fingers hovered over the phone as he thought of what to say. After a few minutes, he made up his mind.

_/Please, just leave me alone. Sorry to have bothered you. JW/_

_/I am sorry, as well./_

Too much. He had said too much, surely. Sherlock clenched the phone in his hand, fighting the impulse to just call John and be done with it all. But it was for John's sake that he couldn't.


	8. Doubting

Unlocking the door without any hesitation, Mycroft strode into the darkened flat and searched for its only resident. His sharp eyes flickering over the flat quickly, he made his way into the bedroom located at the back of the flat with unusual mobility.

There, on the small bed, was John Watson. Heaving an absolute sigh of relief that the man was still alive and breathing, he said in a strained voice, "John," staring down at the man, taking into account the phone in his hands and the few small pills scattered on the floor.

John swallowed, staring at the phone. No. Whoever it had been had either been no one, or they had been purposefully cruel. The replies had been too…Sherlock. And John was sure that his best friend was dead. Hardly noticing that Mycroft had entered, he nodded absently. He needed to think, needed to know what the entire exchange had been about. He took a shaky breath and looked up, gazing blankly at Mycroft.

In an odd show of expression, Mycroft- his umbrella oddly absent, leaned down and made sure that John was looking at him.

"Good God, John," he breathed, tension making his voice almost unrecognizable. He shook his head minutely, searching for any sort of reaction in the army doctor.

John frowned slightly. Blinking away the shock, he said, or rather croaked, "What?" Well, not talking for an extended amount of time tended to do that to a person's voice. Hearing the…emotion in Mycroft's voice only confused him further. John took a deep breath, trying to sort everything out. One, he wasn't dead. Two, someone with _His _phone had texted John back. And three, Mycroft seemed be expressing emotions.

"What," Mycroft repeated flatly. Shaking his head, he took advantage of John's dazed state and carefully extracted the mobile from his hand. He kept his gaze locked with the soldier's in case he tried to pull anything.

John didn't want to let go of the mobile. It was the only link he had to _Him_. Unfortunately, he was in too much shock to do anything about it. He could only watch as Mycroft pulled the phone from his hand. "Why?" he whispered.

Slowly slipping John's phone into the inside pocket of his jacket, he shook his head slowly. "You could answer me that as well, John," he said quietly.

John swallowed and bit his lip. In an emotionless voice, he said, "Isn't that obvious? I sent out a text about it, which I'm guessing you got. That should have explained things pretty clearly." He shrugged, having realised that it had probably been Mycroft who had texted back. Of course Mycroft would have the phone. Unless, maybe, he didn't. Just maybe…

So that's how Sherlock had known. A pained look briefly crossed Mycroft's face before he masked it quickly.

"I cannot allow you to remain here, John."


	9. Thinking

John's brow furrowed. "W-Why not? I'm fine. There's nothing wrong," he said sincerely. For now, he was fine. Because now, there existed a 'maybe'. Unless, of course, it didn't.

Without a word, Mycroft slowly released his piercing gaze and lowered his hand to the floor where he picked up each of the few pills that had been dropped. Raising them back up to his and John's eye level, one thin eyebrow arched on its own accord as he appraised the soldier's reaction.

John flinched a bit, but shrugged it off. "I'm fine _now_." He met Mycroft's gaze with a cool one of his own. What he had been about to do had nothing to do with Mycroft. It had been John's own choice. He didn't see anything wrong with it.

"No," Mycroft said sharply, closing his hand around the pills- sleeping pills, he noted, and pocketed them as well.

John frowned deeply. Shaking himself out of the shock he had been in, he replied in a low voice, "What do you want? What I do is my business. You don't have to concern yourself with me."

"Do you," Mycroft began, ignoring what John was going on about and anger rising in his voice, "Have _any_ sort of value for your own life?"

Smiling thinly, John replied, "I don't know. Maybe. I used to. I might again. We'll see." He shrugged, surprised that Mycroft was so angry. The elder- no, only, Holmes had never cared about John. John had simply been a useful tool in keeping his brother safe. Except John had failed.

Mycroft held his stare evenly for a moment longer. Then, he straightened. "You are to come with me," he said firmly, in a voice that sounded familiar with making orders.

John shrugged. "Fine," he said. He really didn't care about it. Now, all he needed to know was who had sent the messages, because he had seen Mycroft's reaction when he had told him. Mycroft didn't know anything. He hadn't received John's texts, hadn't texted back. Which meant John had a purpose again. Or at least a reason to keep living. He could get through this, if only to find out who had texted him. With a determined expression, he rose from the armchair and picked up his cane, looking at Mycroft expectantly. Besides, even if he had cared, he knew better than to argue.

An eyebrow arched once again but he turned and began walking out of the flat, fully expecting John to follow him. Externally, he maintained the cold and unrevealing shell he used to protect himself but internally, he wanted to call Sherlock back here right now. Mycroft himself was somewhat surprised that he was able to maintain a calm façade despite his being forced to the side of his little brother's best friend as he contemplated suicide.

Not contemplated, he corrected himself darkly. He saw that look in John's eyes. The only reason he hadn't was because Sherlock seemed to be texting him. He sighed inwardly. While there was no doubt that Sherlock had just saved this man's life, there could be a few dangerous complications arising very soon.

Looking over his shoulder to see John actually following him, Mycroft stepped out of the door and held it out for the shorter man. He clenched his jaw very tightly when he saw the absolutely... _unknowing _expression on the old soldier's face. As if he didn't understand what he had just been about to do... whose life he would have destroyed.

John followed Mycroft, limping along. He wasn't concentrating on where he was going or what he was doing. All that mattered now was finding who had messaged him. He began planning absently. He'd need to get a job, get his life back in order. There were things to do, now that he had a purpose.

A sleek black car made its way into their view. It pulled up beside them, and an unknown person exited and opened the rear passenger door. Mycroft took a step back, motioning for John to enter the vehicle.

Sighing, John slid into the car. "Look, Mycroft, what do you want? I don't have time for this," he said irritably.

"You have time," Mycroft replied in a strange tone. He stepped away and nodded once to the driver. Making short eye contact with John once more, he clenched his jaw tightly. However, he failed to find the proper words that he wanted to say that wouldn't give Sherlock away. So, with a curt shake of his head and a hard look before closing the car door himself, he pivoted on his heel to walk in the opposite direction.

John frowned. This wasn't good. Yeah, Mycroft usually didn't answer things exactly, but this seemed more…ominous, almost. However, there wasn't much he could do, now that he was in the fucking car. This would set everything back. He didn't even have his phone to…well, there wasn't really anyone to call, so it didn't matter. He sat in silence, clenching his hand tightly.

Mycroft waited until he made his way into a safe location to go through John's phone and then eventually call Sherlock. He could only imagine how his brother might be feeling right now. He did, however, have a guess and it wasn't pleasant. Scrolling through the many texts and then eventually arriving at the most recently sent one, Mycroft took a moment to run a hand over his face as he lowered himself into a chair. The reality of the situation was truly hitting him now. John Watson had tried to kill himself because of the loss of Sherlock. Despite the Holmes' brothers best efforts, he had not, in fact, healed and moved on. He cursed quietly as he went and reached for the bottle of fine brandy he always kept handy for certain instances.


	10. Recovering

It had been six months since what John now referred to as _that_. Since he had intended to take his own life. During that time, he'd been forced to spend time in a hospital, where it was ensured that his mental health hadn't been compromised. It had been an unpleasant stay, but perhaps it had helped. The entire experience had let John see things a little more clearly. He saw how much of a wreck his life had become, and that what had happened truly hadn't been his fault. The mysterious text had helped with that. He'd managed to find a job at a clinic, along with a girlfriend. Things seemed to be looking up. But something still weighed on his mind. And so, today, John decided to visit Sherlock's grave, for the first time in three years. It was time to let go, to finally accept things and move on. Sherlock was dead, he wasn't coming back, and John had to keep going. If Sherlock had been here, he would have argued with John about the mess he'd made of things. John smiled lightly at the thought. He stood over his best friend's grave and sighed. This time, however, instead of speaking, he would text, the first one since _that_. With a steady hand, he typed out a short message.

_Hey, Sherlock. Sorry that it's been a while, I've been busy. This is going to be the last time I bother you. Don't worry, though, it's not what you think. I'm fine, actually. Much better. Got a job, a girlfriend, mates. It's not bad. Yeah, I still wish you were here, but I know that's not possible. So, this is goodbye. I'll try to make you proud, I guess. See you one day. As always, your friend,_

_John H Watson_

With a sigh, John sent the message, feeling the familiar lump rise in his throat. No, he was fine. He was letting go. Looking back one last time, he whispered, "Thanks, Sherlock," and turned on his heel, back out of the cemetery, feeling lighter than he had in a while.

Finally. _Finally_. It had been three horrible years but now it was finally over and Sherlock was home. He could go back to St. Bart's, he could go to Scotland Yard, he could do anything now without the fear of an ever present laser sight.

He could not, however, return to Baker Street. Not yet.

Mycroft informed him of where John had moved to. He also let him know of John's schedule of the day- when he would be out of the flat and alone. Sherlock was eternally grateful towards his brother, but he would never vocalize it. It was a mutual understanding.

Using the key that Mycroft had given him and that Sherlock had taken unquestioningly, he broke into John's flat away from Baker Street. With some difficulty, he decided to place himself in a darker corner of the room. Not entirely invisible, but not blatantly obvious either.

It would be maybe ten minutes until John was to come here. And then... and then...

Sherlock was somewhat at a loss as to what John's reaction would be. A pinprick of nervousness... or perhaps fear tensed every part of his being for a moment, until he calmed himself and remained in the flat.

After going to the store to pick up some things, as he was expecting Mary over, later in the day, John finally got home. Hefting the plastic bags, he managed to get inside and walked straight over to the kitchen, putting them down on the table before going over and sitting down in the living room. Leaning back in the chair and stretching out his leg, he sighed. John looked around for the book he had been reading when he saw it. Or rather, saw _Him_. His dead best friend, at whose grave he had just been. John went cold. No. This was supposed to be over. Pale and shaking slightly, he stammered out at the ghost of Sherlock Holmes, "You-you're not really here. You're...dead."

"No, I..." Sherlock trailed off, unsure of what to say. He held out a hand, looking at John imploringly. Begging him to understand. "John."

John took a few shaky breaths. "You're _dead_," he repeated. Putting his head in his hands, he muttered, "Jesus! I thought I was done with this."

"I can explain," Sherlock said quickly, taking a few steps towards John. "I can tell you everything now, it's all over-"

John lifted his head and looked at Sherlock with wild eyes. "Exactly! It's all over now. I just said my last goodbye to you. This is all supposed to be over!"

"I'm sorry, John, I'm _sorry_. I had to. It was the only way to protect you."

In a hard, cold voice, John said, "You're. Not. Real. And if you are, then go away. I actually managed to get over it all after what, two and a half years?"

"Two years and 10 months," Sherlock corrected mildly. His eyes were pleading.

His breathing becoming increasingly hysterical, John only said, "No. You're dead. You were on the pavement, and you were dead, and I took your pulse and _you were dead_. This is just another fucking hallucination." And it seemed all too real. No, this wasn't possible. John had just managed to pick the pieces up, and along came a ghost, ready to shatter everything all over again.

"John. I faked it. It was all staged..." he took another step closer until there was just one good stride between the two of them. "I'm here now. I'm real, I assure you." He held out his hand.

Biting his lip, John stretched out a hesitant hand and went to touch Sherlock's, fully expecting his own hand to go through it. Instead, he ended up firmly grasping his dead friend's hand. "No," he mumbled, then said in a stronger voice, "No. I buried you. I _mourned_, if you can call it that. Couldn't sleep, couldn't eat, couldn't fucking do anything. And now, after I manage to get everything back together, you think you can just waltz back, and everything's okay?!"

"I'm sorry, John. I'm sorry. I know," Sherlock imperceptibly winced at John's raised voice and his strong grasp on his hand. He paused, a very small smile trying to make an appearance on his face. "You texted me, remember?"

John gritted his teeth. "So you knew. You knew exactly what was going on and you did _nothing_?!" He jumped to his feet and promptly punched Sherlock in the face. "You bastard!" he cried, shaking his hand out. "No. Get out. I'm over it," he said emotionlessly, not looking at Sherlock. After all, a person could only break so many times, and by now, John was completely shattered, only just keeping himself together. Sherlock coming back would destroy what he had managed to build without him.

Staggering backwards and clutching at his now bleeding nose and lip, Sherlock kept his eyes locked on John. "I couldn't do anything. You don't understand!"

"No, I don't, but you don't, either," John said flatly and sat down with a tired sigh. Shrugging, he said, "Sorry about that." Damn it! Even now, he was still apologising. Even when he knew that he had every right not to.

Holding his arm against his face, Sherlock blinked the stinging pain out of his eyes. "John. I can explain. Please," he mumbled through the cloth of his sleeve.

In a voice devoid of emotion, John said, "Fine. Go ahead." He motioned for Sherlock to sit, and bit his lip, trying to keep himself from falling apart.

Ready to launch into an extensive explanation, Sherlock hesitated as blood continued to drip from his nose. John had hit him harder than he had expected. He cleared his throat somewhat awkwardly, motioning towards the sink. "May I...?"

He nodded curtly and stared out the window blankly. John felt oddly guilty. He hadn't meant to hit Sherlock so hard. Fuck it all. Couldn't anything ever go right for him? Yeah, his best friend came back from the dead. He knew that he should be happy. But it was too soon. He'd waited too long, had hoped for too long. And when hope died, it left an empty hole that ended up filling with resentment.

Grabbing a paper towel sitting by the sink, Sherlock began to tend to his newly acquired injuries. Not really taking care to do it properly, he just held the thin paper there where the blood flow was gradually slowing. He turned around quickly and looked down at John. At the sight of him, however, at the realization that he was _really there_, he hesitated once again.

"John...I... I'm sorry."

With a thin smile, John glanced at Sherlock and replied, "Yeah, so am I." He resumed staring out the window, trying to wrap his head around everything that was happening. With an almost hysterical laugh at himself, he put his head in his hands. Fuck. Fuck everything.

"I didn't die. I didn't. And it's not your fault. It never was." All the planning that Sherlock had so carefully thought out had flown out the window. He took another step closer to John's hunched over form. A hesitant hand reached out towards him, he drew it back in apprehension of another hard swing to the face.

John let out a short, bitter laugh. "How nice that you're telling me this now, instead of when I was in, what they call, severe depression. I doubt I needed to know then." Fuck, he couldn't stop himself. Maybe, if he hadn't been so fucking upset, he could have managed to be more normal. Not this fucking mess. He took a shaky breath.


	11. Explaining

"But I did," Sherlock responded quietly, sniffing and wiping at his face. "I could only say so much when I was gone. You would have..." he trailed off, uncertainly.

John sighed heavily, trying to calm himself down. "I would have?" he prompted, looking up guiltily at Sherlock. "Sorry," he repeated, looking down.

Sherlock shook his head. Finally, he reached out and lightly laid one hand on John's shoulder. "You would have been killed," he said in a low tone. "That's why I did it. I had to. It was to protect you and Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson..."

John bit his lip and stared at the ground, feeling horrible. He should have had more faith in his friend. Should have trusted him to have a good reason to have done what he did. "Jesus, Sherlock! I'm so sorry. I-I didn't know. I should have known that you had a reason. Fuck, it's like you always said- I don't think."

A tiny hint of a smile ghosted over Sherlock's still bloodied face. "I know." Then, a quiet release of tense breath left him. "You really don't. You almost made it all for nothing..." he tried to keep an accusatory tone out of his voice. He didn't mean to blame John for _anything_, but he had made it incredibly difficult at times.

John frowned. "_That_ was…I dunno. I was desperate, I suppose. I tried, for two damn years. Me having to watch you die didn't exactly make things easier. Why did you make me watch, anyways?" he asked, matching Sherlock's accusatory tone.

"Because you had to believe it. If you didn't and they suspected you of knowing something..." Sherlock retracted his hand and stepped back and went to the sink to get a new, clean paper towel. He scowled momentarily as his nose continued to occasionally drip blood.

John watched Sherlock for a moment, before saying, "Lean forward. Hold on a second." He walked to the freezer and got a package of frozen peas out. He handed it to Sherlock with a guilty/apologetic look, and said, "I'm really sorry. I-I just...reacted, I guess. Old habit. Sorry." Biting his lip, he looked down.

"Thank you," Sherlock said quietly, taking the bag gratefully. "Stop apologizing. I didn't expect it, but I do deserve it, I suppose..."

"Well, even if you do deserve it, that still doesn't give me the right to go around punching you. Sorry…Sherlock." It felt odd saying Sherlock's name out loud and to him after almost three years. John sat back down and looked at Sherlock calmly, hoping that he would explain everything.

"It's alright." Sherlock remained at the sink, standing with his back against the side of it. He looked down at John as if relearning everything about him. Thankfully, he did not look incredibly unhealthy or as... broken as when Mycroft had found him months ago. A dark grimace passed over Sherlock's features at the thought.

"I am sorry, John. I never thought... I had no idea that you would be so affected by it. By me. To the point of..." he shook his head slowly. "I wanted to come back immediately. I read every single one of your texts and I always wanted to reply but I couldn't. Mycroft wouldn't let me."

John nodded slowly. "Alright, then. I'm not going to say that it's okay, because it's not, but...Yeah, I forgive you," he said quietly. Smiling lightly at Sherlock, though it was tinged with sadness (he doubted that he would ever be able to look at Sherlock without seeing him dead), he said, "So, what have you been up to these past two years and ten months?"

Sherlock shifted uneasily. "I'm not sure you'd really like to know."

John gave a flat smile. "I think it would help if I knew what you were doing while I was here...moping." He didn't want to call it what it was- depressed. It just sounded too pathetic. Anyways, he was curious as to what had kept Sherlock busy for almost three years.

Sherlock let out a short breath, nodding once. Finally, he delved into a long and complicated explanation of just what he had been doing and why. Where he had gone. Why it took so long to get back.

It took a while, and John listened and thankfully did not interrupt. After Sherlock was finished summing up the worst years of his life as best he could, he watched John carefully for a reaction.

John sighed, and gave Sherlock and exasperated look. "You should have let me come. I could have helped. I mean, it's not like I don't know about any of that. I was a soldier, after all." He shifted, a bit uncomfortable. "I _can _take care of myself," he said, as Sherlock opened his mouth to argue.

"I wanted to," Sherlock said after a moment. "But Mycroft wouldn't allow it." He paused. "I think, in the end, he was right," he grudgingly admitted.

Frowning, he asked, "How? I could have been useful. You'd have been, I dunno, safer." John decided then, that if he saw Mycroft any time soon, it would not be guaranteed that he wouldn't do something that Sherlock would probably call stupid.

"No," Sherlock said quietly. "You would have been in danger. Too much. Far too much."

John gave an irritated huff. "I've been in danger before, Sherlock," he said dryly. "It's nothing new."

"This was." He shook his head and finally lowered the cold bag from his face as the bleeding seemed to have stopped and his lip was now numb anyway. Gingerly touching where it was beginning to swell, his eyes became absent as he thought back over the three years. "I'm sorry, John."

He sighed and waved the apology away. "It's fine. Anyways, you're back now." Seeing Sherlock's slight wince, John bit his lip anxiously. "I'm really sorry about that," he said sincerely.

He refocused on John and he lowered his hand. "I am back now," he concurred, mirroring John's tone. Sherlock cleared his throat. Taking advantage of the momentary lull in their conversation, he asked a question of his own. One he hoped the other man would take very seriously. "How... How are you, John?"

Understanding immediately what the detective meant, John's lips flattened into a thin line. Slowly, he said, "I-I'm...better now. Really. It's hard to explain. I sent you a text about it, today, actually."

"Yes." He looked away. It was truly selfish of him to return to John _especially_ after that text. He had finally moved on, finally healed... and now Sherlock was inexplicably alive.

"So you know that I'm fine. It's alright, really. I'm glad that you're back, honestly." He smiled genuinely at Sherlock. "Oh, fuck," he said, suddenly remembering his date. "I have to call Mary and call our evening off. Er, sorry, Sherlock."

"Oh- oh, I didn't realize... Sorry. Um," Sherlock straightened from the counter. "You don't need to call her off. I can..." He can what? Go back to Baker Street? Alone? Speak with Molly again, or Lestrade, or even Anderson? Habitually biting his lip but immediately regretting it from the stinging pain, Sherlock glanced at John apologetically.

John smiled and gave Sherlock a -don't be stupid- look. "Really, Sherlock. My best friend comes back from the dead, and you think I want to go on a date? I can do that some other time. Stay," he ordered, getting up to make tea.


	12. Understanding

Swallowing hard, Sherlock nodded. He watched John go about his routine, his mind somewhat slipping into a faraway place. Days spent alone, hiding- nights of endless running, even more hiding, fighting-

Shaking himself, Sherlock began to observe the flat. Few decorations, basic furniture, well-kept. Girlfriend was not living with John, he concluded within seconds. His brow lowered slightly in worry at the thought of where he might go. Would John want to go back to Baker Street? How long would it be until everything went back to how it was?

After pushing a mug into Sherlock's hands, John went to his room and called Mary. He explained, and she seemed surprisingly okay with everything. Happy for him, even. That was different. He grinned, and came back to the living room. It really was nice to finally have a girlfriend who understood him properly. Sitting back down, he looked around, realising how out-of-place Sherlock looked. The flat wasn't right. It wasn't Baker Street, after all.

"Listen, John," Sherlock began when the man returned from the bedroom, "I hope that Mycroft was not too... overbearing." He grimaced. Mycroft had remained sparse with details regarding what exactly he had said to John while Sherlock was away. He wanted to know.

John scoffed. "The bloody Queen? Overbearing? Perish the thought!" He wasn't sure if he wanted to tell Sherlock. It would probably end up further ruining relations between the brothers.

"John," Sherlock pressed, exasperated but a faint smile appearing on his face all the same.

"Fine," John sighed. "Well, at one point, he asked me if I had any sort of value for my life. He also refused to let me stay here, then. Before that, he said something about it getting better soon. It didn't. Said he was sorry. That I am 'owed things', supposedly. That sort of stuff," he said, trailing off.

Sherlock said nothing for a good minute, his gaze fixated at something on the floor. Then, he spoke in a hushed voice. "Were you going to do it?" He raised his eyes and locked them with John's. Both of them held a fixed, plain-faced mask over themselves. Sherlock more so than the old army doctor.

John nodded shortly, looking away from Sherlock's all too observant eyes. He didn't really want to talk about this. Sherlock wouldn't understand why, and anyways, that was all over.

Sherlock was very still. "You can't. Ever."

With a heavy sigh, John said, "I know. It's all fine now. Let's just forget about it, okay?"

"I-" Sherlock hesitated. Could John just... forget? If that's what he wanted... "I am sorry. I never meant for you to be affected that way. I didn't think that you would be," he said honestly.

"Yeah, yeah, I know," John said tiredly. "It's fine." Despite wanting everything to be fine, he wasn't sure if it would be. Sherlock had left once already, and John didn't know if he'd do it again. It was just, they were both different now. They'd both gone through…difficulties.

"Is it?"

John waved a hand absently. "Yeah, don't worry about it, Sherlock."

"I do, though." Sherlock let out a short breath, "It's my fault, after all."

"I told you, it's fine. Doesn't really matter. It's all over with, now." He frowned slightly at Sherlock. He hadn't wanted the detective to blame himself. "Look, it was my choice, albeit a stupid one, looking back on it."

"Yes," Sherlock agreed mildly.

"My point is that you blaming yourself is as stupid as me having blamed myself. It doesn't really get us anywhere," John shrugged with a flat smile.

"Then why? Why did you think it was your fault?" Sherlock asked bluntly.

"Because my best friend threw himself off a building! Right after I said things that shouldn't have been said. And then, I left you. I should have known that everything was fine, that you weren't like _that_, and all I did was leave. I should have been there with you. Why wouldn't I think it was my fault? Practically all of London suddenly turned against you, and then, so did I. And I figured that was why you jumped." John looked down at the floor.

Sherlock hadn't really thought about it like that. "Oh," he said softly.

"Yeah," John said, shrugging. It didn't really matter anymore- after all, he was over it, and Sherlock wasn't really dead.

"But you... you are fine now?" Sherlock looked at him hopefully.

He nodded in affirmation. "I told you, Sherlock, I'm over it. So, yeah, I'm fine."

"Okay..." Sherlock said, uncertain. He glanced around the unfamiliar flat for a moment. Should he leave? Go back to 221B? Would Mrs. Hudson even let him in? A faint feeling of worry bothered him as he suddenly realised how difficult it might be to reintegrate himself into London life. He looked at John and found the man looking back at him as well.

John watched Sherlock, still finding it hard to believe that he was really there. Yes, he was. Sherlock was actually alive and in his flat. Realising that this was all really happening, he frowned slightly. "What now? Have you managed to clear your name? Are you going to go back to what you were doing before?"

"I don't know," Sherlock replied truthfully. "It may take a while before everything goes back to how it was. It's not everyday people come back to life, after all." He shook his head slightly. "I may still have to rely on Mycroft for a few things."

John chuckled lightly. "I'm sure you're loving that. Anyways, it's alright. I guessed that things wouldn't be exactly how they were. It's fine. We'll figure something out." He smiled reassuringly at Sherlock.

At the use of the word 'we', Sherlock genuinely smiled for the first time in ages. Still, he struggled to understand just how accepting John was of his sudden return. Was one good punch in the face really all it took?

John actually looked at Sherlock and noticed just how bad he looked. Thinner, paler, sort of drawn-out, almost. And tired. "When was the last time you ate?" he asked, concerned.

"Er," Well. It had been a while since he had been asked _that_. Sherlock shrugged and waved a hand dismissively.

"Sherlock..." John sighed. "Is it really that difficult to actually eat?"

"It's tedious," Sherlock said airily, raising his eyebrows innocently. "I was... busy, anyway."

"I'm sure you were," John replied, rolling his eyes. He walked over to the kitchen and looked through the fridge. "I'm afraid that all I've got is leftovers," he called.

"I don't need anything." Sherlock dabbed lightly at his face and was pleased to find that the blood flow had finally stopped. He crossed his arms, watching John go through the flat. He looked healthy and calm and... alright. Whatever Mycroft had done to save this man, Sherlock had to thank him for. Which, he thought with some annoyance, Mycroft was sure to draw out and tease with until the end of time.

Coming back to the living room with a tray, John pushed it at Sherlock. Crossing his arms obstinately, he gave Sherlock a pointed look. "Yeah, I don't care. You're eating, understand?" He figured that his friend had probably been forgetting for a while now, considering how he looked. Now that Sherlock was back, John wasn't about to let anything that could endanger the detective happen.


	13. Catching Up

Glancing down at the tray loaded with a hodgepodge of leftovers, Sherlock couldn't help grinning a bit. "Fine. Thank you," he said, taking it from John's hands. Even after so long, all John seemed to want to do was make Sherlock eat. Using the fork that had been provided, he poked at it to delay the digesting process off as long as possible.

"So," he began in a conversational tone, "You have a girlfriend." John would know the implied questions in his statement.

John nodded and turned a bit red. "Yeah, Mary. She's wonderful, you know? Anyways, she's somewhat of an heiress. Her dad found some sort of treasure in India, and she inherited it. I met her by chance. She bumped into me and, er, needed some help with something. I asked her out, later, and, yeah... I have no idea why she puts up with me. I think you'd like her, actually."

"Mm." Sherlock didn't bring up the fact that everyone of John's girlfriends in the past had been unmemorable and inconsequential to him. At the way John's face flushed, an inquisitive eyebrow rose on its own accord.

"You want to marry her?" he asked suddenly, his fork ceasing its repetitive stabbing for a moment.

John shifted a bit uncomfortably. "Er, yeah. I was considering it..." He trailed off, unsure how things were to be now. He had no idea how Sherlock would react.

Sherlock blinked once, guessing John's thoughts from his body language. "While I find marriage to be impractical and foolish, you don't need to adjust your... plans just because I am here now. Um," whatever he was saying sounded foolish to his own ears, which was a rare occurrence. To make up for it, he finally took one entire mouthful of the food John had generously offered him.

"Are you sure? I don't want you to feel...I dunno. Sorry. It's just, well...I think I love her. Anyways, if I do ask, it's not going to be for a while. I mean, there's all of this to sort out first," he said, and looked down awkwardly at the floor. "Er, I was thinking, um, if she does agree, do you think you could be my best man?" John mumbled, not taking his eyes off of the floor. It would be great if his best friend could be at his wedding, if there was one.

A little bit shocked, Sherlock slowly set down the tray of food. "Me?" he asked disbelievingly, his entire face drawn up in confusion. "Why?" No one had ever asked him to be their 'best man' at a wedding before. Come to think of it, he had never been to a wedding except for a case a long, long time ago. Also, there was the fact that John was not even properly engaged, yet.

"Well, you are my best friend...Oh, forget about it. It doesn't matter. I mean, I haven't even proposed, and she'll probably say no." John stared pointedly at the floor, rather embarrassed. He'd gotten a little too eager. Stupid. First of all, he didn't even know if Mary would agree. And second of all, of course Sherlock wouldn't want to. He probably found it all too dull, or too sentimental.

After the initial shock, Sherlock recovered and began to backtrack. "No, that's not what I meant. I didn't mean _no_," he paused, trying figuring out what he did mean. "If you truly want, I would be your... 'best man'-" he made small quotation marks with his fingers- "I just... don't understand why you would want _me_ there in the first place."

"I told you, idiot," John said lightly, looking up. "You're my best friend. That's what people usually do when-if, they're getting married."

"I wouldn't know," Sherlock said blankly after a moment of looking searchingly at John's expression.

John bit his lip. "Right. Well..." He trailed off, unsure of what to say. "Sorry," he said reflexively.

"She won't say no," Sherlock said softly after a momentary silence.

Smiling dryly, John said, "We'll see. But thanks." He appreciated that Sherlock was trying. It was moments like these that made it all worth it.

"You know I'm right," Sherlock continued.

John shrugged. "Like I said, I don't, actually. It's fine that way. Still, thanks."

Sherlock nodded slowly, and as he ate he began to realize that he was, in fact, very hungry. Looking back through his most recent memories, he failed to recall whether he had actually eaten since his arrival to England. Surely John had sensed that somehow.

John. Sherlock suddenly found himself at a loss for words as he truly realised the depth of trust and reliance John held for him. He had so readily accepted Sherlock into his life- with just one punch to the face. Which was fine. It could have been worse. But yet, Sherlock failed to understand _why_. Why would John suffer so much because of him but want to let him back into his life after so many years? Especially with an apparently wonderful woman who could, essentially, replace Sherlock.

An odd question suddenly popped up in Sherlock's head and he thought about it for an entire two seconds before vocalizing it.

"If I hadn't come back," he began in a delicate tone, "and if you did get married to... Mary… who would be your best man?"

A weird question and maybe an intrusive one, but it lingered in Sherlock's mind and he was genuinely curious.

John thought about the question in silence. A moment passed, before he finally had an answer. "I wasn't planning on having one. No one really fit," he said, shrugging. "I mean, you can't really replace your best friend, can you?" He hadn't even considered the topic before all of this. There hadn't been anyone suitable for the position, not really.

Sherlock glanced down at his food, resorting back to just stabbing at it. "'Best friend' is a flexible term, isn't it? People have more than one their entire life," he said in as indifferent a voice he could muster.

John frowned. "That's true, I suppose." In a second, however, he added, "Well... when I was younger, mum told me that you find true friends in hard times. I mean a real friend, not just the normal sort. I didn't really understand it at the time. Guess it proved to be true." He swallowed reflexively. "Um, before I met you... well, things were pretty bad. I didn't exactly, er, have anyone..." John trailed off, thinking.

"Neither did I," Sherlock replied in a small voice. He truly did not understand what he had done to obtain a friend like John Watson. No, not _obtain_, he mentally corrected himself. Earn.


	14. Returning

"Right. Sorry." John said, looking down. Well, this was rather uncomfortable. For both of them. "Um...anyways. So, when are we moving back to Baker Street?"

Sherlock's head snapped up and he stared at his former flatmate blankly. Completely thrown off, his mind raced to try to understand and to catch up to John's speeding train of thought. Sherlock had thought that it would take months for John to accept him back into his life- the possibility of them living in Baker Street together again was one he had not dealt on for fear of... well, the real chance that John might not want to be with him.

Apparently, though, his worries were for naught.

"What?" he managed dumbly, after a long period of absolute shock and confusion.

"Do you really think that I'm about to let you go off again? Yeah, I'm sure that would be a great idea. Just have you disappear," he replied dryly. "Oh no. I need to keep an eye on you so you don't do anything stupid." John was not about to let Sherlock out of his sight. Once was enough, and he'd seen how well that had gone. So, he knew what had to be done, or rather, he knew what he couldn't allow. And that was for both of them to be relatively alone together. Not that John was really alone anymore, but Sherlock would be. And John didn't want that.

"But I... but you..." Sherlock took a deep, relatively calming breath. "I don't understand."

"Look, Sherlock. I am not letting you leave again. It didn't exactly turn out well last time. So, the only thing left to do is to move back to Baker Street. At least for a while. Because, honestly, I'm messed up enough already. Any more and...," he trailed off with a flat smile. John gave Sherlock a pointed look. "Not exactly difficult to figure out, is it?"

Sherlock's face fell slightly. "Don't say that."

He shrugged. "Why not? We both know it's true. Anyways, doesn't matter now." John sighed

"It does, John. Please," Sherlock said, a sort of childish innocence falling over his eyes. "You don't have to move to Baker Street. You have a flat and a girlfriend and a new life-" he shut his mouth before he said anything stupid. Was he actually trying to convince John to _not_ live with him at Baker Street? He wanted that more than anything, but he didn't know if John did. Not for sure.

"Yeah, well, I never really liked this flat anyways. And just because I've got a girlfriend doesn't mean I can't move back…Unless you don't want me to…" John said, looking down. He didn't know what he would do if Sherlock didn't want him to come back. He knew that things were never going to be the same again, but he had to try,

"Of course I want you to," Sherlock replied, his brow furrowing.

"Right. So that's settled then," John said with a short nod. "Anyways..."

"But-" Sherlock began again, shaking his head, but failing to find any sort of protestation. He hesitated. "Are you sure?"

John gave a curt nod in reply. "Yes, you idiot," he sighed, sounding rather annoyed. "Unless of course, you have some sort of argument for why not."

"I don't. I just thought you would be... angrier." Sherlock ran a hand through his messy hair, hesitating. "I thought you wouldn't want anything to do with me. That's what Mycroft said..."

With a flat smile, John said, "Oh, I am angry. I just don't think that's going to help with anything. And even Mycroft can be wrong, sometimes. I…waited for you for two years. I rather think that since you are back, I'll take what I can get." He looked down at the floor, not meeting Sherlock's eyes.

Sherlock let out a long breath. "All right," he said quietly. "I can- we can go back to Baker Street whenever you want to. Mrs. Hudson doesn't know I'm..." he waved his hand meaninglessly, his eyes guilty.

He nodded. "Right. How do you plan on telling her, so she doesn't get a heart attack?" John asked dryly.

Sherlock opened his mouth to make a quick response, but found himself at a loss. "_Would _she have a heart attack?" he asked sincerely, real worry staining his voice.

John sighed. "If you go about it the right way, I think she'll be fine. Mrs. Hudson's a lot tougher than you think." He thought of when Sherlock had been dead, and Mrs. Hudson had been able to keep herself together, when he himself hadn't.

Sherlock glanced about the flat distractedly before giving John a childishly imploring look of I-don't-know-how-to-go-about-it-the-right-way-help -please.

John rolled his eyes and exhaled loudly. "You're going to have to be gentle. Not do what you did with me. Actually, I should probably talk to her first. You can come in once I've told her everything."

"Okay," Sherlock conceded mildly. "Thank you," he added.

John waved a hand absently. "It's alright. Or it will be, I hope."


	15. Breaking

After a few more minutes talking about nothing, John took a cab over to Baker Street, after telling Sherlock that he would call him once everything would be ready. Upon arriving, he made sure that Mrs. Hudson was sitting down, before telling her the news. She took it surprisingly well, so John deemed it alright to have Sherlock come in. After a tearful reunion on Mrs. Hudson's part, she gladly handed over the keys to 221B, and asked if they wanted tea, before reminding the both of them that she was not their housekeeper.

Leaving Mrs. Hudson downstairs after a long, emotion-filled conversation, Sherlock hung back for a moment, allowing John to be the first to step through the door of the flat. Their flat.

John drew in a long, shuddering breath, before stepping in slowly. He stood in the doorway, looking at the flat. Everything looked like it always had, except perhaps a little dustier. It almost seemed wrong, that it had remained the same, while everything else had changed. John was no longer the same man he had been the first time he had come here. Neither was Sherlock. He tried to keep himself together, but a single dry sob escaped him. All that he could remember was the last time he had been in the flat, on the worst day of his life. The day after Sherlock had jumped. He blinked rapidly and looked away. Fuck. He was not about to start sobbing or do something stupid like that in front of Sherlock. No.

At the strange, broken sound that was emitted by his friend and resonated though the untouched flat, Sherlock quickly followed him through the door and reached out to him.

"John." Not a question, not a statement. Just... reassurance.

John bit his trembling lip and gave a small nod. He knew that saying something wouldn't really be possible right now. Taking a shaky breath, he leaned against the door frame for a moment, trying to collect himself.

"I'm sorry." Sherlock had a feeling he would never stop repeating those words for the rest of their lives. He would never be insincere about it, either. He faced John squarely, feeling the worst he had ever felt in his entire life as he helplessly watched his closest and only friend continue to fall apart all over again.

John looked away, taking another ragged breath. "It-it's fine," he said hoarsely, before sliding down the wall and sitting down. Another sob managed to escape him, to which he replied quietly, "Fuck," not looking at Sherlock. He knew that Sherlock meant what he said. It was just hard. All of it was a bit too much.

Sudden overpowering concern and worry fell over him as John literally collapsed where he stood. Sherlock automatically knelt with him, placing steady hands on the old soldier's upper arms. His eyes flitted over John's person at a nearly feverish pace.

"John? I'm sorry, I'm _sorry_. John-" he mumbled on, unable to form coherent sentences or thoughts.

He bit his lip hard enough to taste blood, trying to stop himself from being stupid. After a moment, John replied quietly, "It's fine, Sherlock. I know. I'm sorry, I know I should be more, I dunno, normal about this all. Sorry." He stared at the floor, berating himself.

"No." Sherlock stared at him, his eyes sharp and intense as ever. "Stop apologizing. You have nothing to be sorry for."

John clenched his hand. "Yes, I do," he said roughly, avoiding Sherlock's pointed gaze. "I shouldn't be acting like this. It's bloody ridiculous. I'm sorry."

"It's not," Sherlock replied in a gentler tone.

He let out a broken laugh. "Yeah, it is. I mean, it isn't as if I haven't been through stuff like this before," John said, thinking of the war.

Sherlock paused, leaning back slightly as he tried to reorganize his own thoughts. No, it was different. He didn't exactly know how or why, but he knew his 'death' had affected John differently than any other war casualty. Letting out an unsteady breath, Sherlock shook his head.

"I... I'm sorry. I wish that I never had to do this. I'm sorry I lied to you."

"I know, Sherlock, really. I-I just-" he broke off, unsure how to say anything. John, for some reason, was falling apart again. Probably because he had just managed to get everything together again, and now this. Not that it was bad. He was glad that Sherlock was back. Well, actually, he had no idea _what_ he was feeling. After being empty for so long, everything was a bit overwhelming. He was sad, angry, happy, confused, and not sure what he was supposed to do. John put his head in his hands and shook with silent sobs, mixed with a bit of hysterical laughter, unable to stop himself. "Fuck," he choked out. "I'm a fucking mess. Sorry."

Without putting much thought into it, the detective lunged forward and closed his arms around John's shuddering frame. He truly had no right to be here again. No right to speak to John, let alone touch him or live with him again. Obviously, John was having the same issue. Neither of them knew what to do, but Sherlock found himself acting on both of their _emotions_- painful as it was, and he held his friend to him for John's benefit as much as his own.

John clutched at Sherlock desperately, making sure that the thin individual holding him was undeniably real. In the back of his head, he knew that Sherlock was probably incredibly uncomfortable with this, but right then, he couldn't care less. "Real," he whispered shakily. "Real." He'd had too many experiences like this before, where he thought that maybe Sherlock wasn't dead, and everything was okay. But this was real. Sherlock was here, and everything _would_ be okay. It had to. He might end up falling to pieces, but that would be okay, because Sherlock was back, and everything would be fine, and it was all over, and it was all real, and he would be okay. "Real," he whispered once more, reassuring himself.

All thoughts that John might begin protesting with the old 'not gay' bit were pushed aside when Sherlock felt his embrace returned just as desperately as he had initiated it. He let out a shuddering breath as John continued to shake and mumble against him.

"Yes, I'm sorry, yes, I'm real. I'm here." Had John hallucinated or dreamt this situation before? Wrought with guilt, Sherlock shook his head against John's shoulder. He wished he could do more for his friend. So much more.

John swallowed, taking a deep breath, trying to calm himself down. After a moment, he let go of Sherlock, deciding that was probably enough hugging. "I'm sorry. It's...fine," he said slowly. "Sorry." He felt like a complete idiot after basically having an emotional breakdown in front of the very man who did his best to 'detach himself'.

"Do you need anything?" Sherlock said softly, his hands still hovering near John's body. From the odd look of guilt and... embarrassment on the man's face, the observant detective let out a short sigh. Of course John would only think of Sherlock's supposed discomfort with emotions before himself. "John, stop it. I... It's alright, really."

"No, it's not. Honestly, you'd think that I could keep it together. Sorry," he said, with a tight smile. After a pause, John said, more collected, "Actually, a cuppa would be nice. That is, if there's any tea here." The old soldier dragged a hand across his face, still breathing rather raggedly, but beginning to calm down. "I'm...fine. Sorry about that," he said, sniffing.

"Stop apologizing," Sherlock said sternly.

"Sorry," John said habitually. Realising what he'd said, he said, "Sorry...Damn it. Sorry. Oh, fuck." He could never stop apologising. Odd, considering everything.

A faint but real smile crossed Sherlock's expression. With one last searching look, he slowly stood and then, after a moment, extended a hand down to help John up. "Can you stand?"

"Yeah, yeah," he said, grabbing Sherlock's hand and pulling himself up. "Sorry. Anyways..." John hoped that his flatmate again wouldn't say anything about the ridiculous breakdown he'd just had. It was understandable, but it'd be hard to explain.

"Go sit," he ironically ordered immediately after John was steadily on his feet. Sherlock nudged him over to where their armchairs silently awaited their return. "Mrs. Hudson!" he called, directing his voice down the stairwell. "We'll have that tea now, thank you!"

John nodded, smiling a bit, at the thought of Sherlock ordering him to sit. It had usually been the other way around. He walked over to his old armchair and slowly sat down in it, feeling as if things were like they used to be. Except they weren't. It would take a while to get used to it all. In a quiet voice, he said, "Thanks, Sherlock."

He nodded once, listening for Mrs. Hudson's answer. Pleased when she cheerily called up that she'd be up with it soon, Sherlock did not go to sit in his own armchair. He was too worked up for that. Instead, he took a few measured steps to the window and inhaled the air that was 221B. Staring out at the slow traffic of Baker Street and the grey skies that accompanied it, Sherlock touched the cold glass with the tips of his fingers. He shut his eyes for a short moment, listening intently to John's breathing and Mrs. Hudson downstairs. He really was here.


	16. Continuing

John took a few moments steadying himself. When he was sure that he wasn't about to fall apart again, he looked up at Sherlock, standing by the window. Realising how incredibly selfish he'd been, he asked softly, "Hey, you alright?" He'd been so focused on his own problems, that he had completely forgotten that it couldn't be easy for Sherlock to be back here, either. Stupid. John watched Sherlock carefully, feeling horribly guilty for not having thought.

Not vocalizing his answer, Sherlock eventually turned and looked at his flatmate over his shoulder. Studying him, he nodded shortly and then let out an exhausted whoosh of air before turning back to the window. It was peaceful and... right... to be back here. It made Sherlock uneasy. Even after so many difficult years, it couldn't be this easy to slip back into civilian life? So easy for everything to just be all right again?

"Sit," John ordered. He could see that Sherlock felt uneasy. Could even guess why. How could either of them come back to all this after so much had changed? It seemed wrong, but right, at the same time. Almost as if they were supposed to be here, no matter what happened. But how could everything just go back to how it had been? He sighed wearily.

"I'm fine," Sherlock waved him off, continuing to stare out the tall window at the grey, foggy day. Spacing out, he didn't even notice when Mrs. Hudson came in with tea.

Taking the tea from Mrs. Hudson with a polite nod and a few 'thank you's', along with being reminded that this was just this once, John walked up to Sherlock and handed him a cup. With a small sip from his own, he turned to the detective and said, "No, you're not. Not yet. Neither of us are, not really." He gave a tiny smile. "But you will be."

Drawn out of his reverie, Sherlock stared at John as he took the cup absently. "Yes," he said simply, not truly agreeing or disagreeing.

"Just... give it time, I guess," he said softly, shrugging. John went back to his armchair and looked at the chair across from him. Sherlock's chair. The last time he'd seen it, it had been empty. He stared blankly at it, thinking about nothing and everything.

Following John with his gaze as he went back to his chair, the detective saw the distant look on his face as he looked at Sherlock's chair. Not wanting John to forget that he was here and alive, Sherlock abandoned the window and promptly leaped into the chair with legs drawn up to his chin. He gazed across at John, offering him a reassuring smile that he was, despite both of their continued disbelief, actually there.

John smiled, shaking his head. He hadn't expected Sherlock to pick up on what he had been thinking. After all, the man hadn't noticed when he'd been in New Zealand. Or Dublin. Or whenever he'd left. So this was nice. He sat; drinking his tea, content for now, to sit in temporary silence, though there had been far too much of that for the past two years. Still, it would be okay, for now.

Without moving his gaze away from John, Sherlock began trying to figure out what the soldier had been doing with himself while he was away. His tea remaining untouched, the detective put together a few things based on John's appearance alone.

"You've lost weight," he commented quietly but without judgment. Just an observation.

John blinked, startled. "Er, yeah, I guess," he answered vaguely. Deciding that Sherlock deserved the truth, he added, "Well, I just didn't feel like eating. For quite a while. Still don't, not really. It's fine, though. Doesn't matter." He looked away from Sherlock's all too observant eyes.

Sherlock frowned. "But you need to eat."

Giving Sherlock a pointed look, John retorted, "So do you. Besides, I do eat. Just not as often, I suppose." He shrugged.

"I'm different," he responded evasively. Well. There was one thing he had to repair. It mattered. Continuing with his observations and not really noticing John's discomfort, Sherlock's eyes took in every aspect of John's person. "Your limp is back."

John's face darkened. "Yeah," he said shortly. There wasn't much else to say, not with this. It was just a thing that had happened, and he knew why. It was only to be expected.

"And your left hand..." Hearing the sharpness in John's tone, Sherlock guiltily retreated into himself even more. "Sorry," he mumbled through his arms and knees.

"No, no, it's fine. Sorry," he sighed heavily. "It's fine." It didn't really matter anyways. Besides, John had sort of missed Sherlock's constant observations and deductions. "I don't mind. Sorry."

Unable to restrain his desire to know and understand everything, Sherlock launched into the next observation after just a few moments of silence. "Did you take medication?"

John nodded. "I had problems sleeping. So, you know..." he trailed off, unsure of what to say. It was difficult talking about this, more so than he'd expected. Though it didn't surprise him at all that Sherlock was asking questions, or rather stating facts.

The detective paused. "Nightmares?"

With a small, sharp exhale, John said, "Yeah."

Sherlock leaned his head forward so that his chin rested completely on his knees. He refrained from saying sorry for the umpteenth time in the hour, but his expression surely showed it. "Ella didn't help, as usual?" he said flatly, after a moment.

All John could do was nod. "She used to help. At least a bit. Except at some point, I just stopped caring. And then, it didn't matter what she said," he said quietly, looking down at the floor. He didn't want to see Sherlock's guilty expression. There was far too much of that. Anyways, it wasn't as if it would change anything. What had happened had happened. It was over now.

Sherlock quieted for a minute, thinking. "But then you met Mary?" he guessed.

"It took a while, but yeah," John said, nodding in affirmation.

They continued on, talking about nothing for a few more hours until the sun had long since set and every possible topic of conversation dried up. They had caught each other up with their lives, but there was still so much left unsaid. Still, both of them could already feel the old threads of what their friendship was slowly coming back together. Maybe it was the fact that both of them found solace in the sound of each other's voice compared to the emptiness they had become accustomed to, but soon even Sherlock began to succumb to exhaustion and the need for sleep. "I think," he said, yawning, "That we should continue this discussion in the morning." What discussion they had been having, he wasn't too sure. Both of them had sort of just been... talking.

"Right," John said, standing up and stretching. "Right. Good night, then." He walked up to his room, smiling at the familiar action. No nightmares tonight. He'd be fine. It would take time, but everything would be fine again. The story of the world's only consulting detective and the army doctor would continue, picking up where it had left off. And all would be right again.


End file.
